Boring writing that nobody cares about.
My story is exactly the same as millions of children before me and millions that will come after me. My parents were poor and drug addicts. They depended on welfare and less than legal professions. My father beat me daily, as well as my mother. Ben was an alcoholic who sold marijuana for a living. Mary was a prostitute in the projects who gave herself away to the “fucking niggers” as Ben called them. Ben never knew that Mary was off being filled by them every single night. He didn’t ask questions. The money she brought home supported his small operation and her own personal addiction to cocaine.
Where did this leave me? I ran as fast I could to and from school every day. I listened to the kids yelling as I ran by, “Your mother’s a whore!” I knew it was the truth, but I was nine years old and in denial. The thirteen year olds who chased me down and left me black and blue every day knew I was an easy source of wringing out their own frustrations. I was just a damp washcloth to them. Every day it was the same. Get the kid, steal what little money he had, beat him until he couldn’t walk straight and then let him go to school, or home. It’s hard growing up when all you know are abusive parents, abusive and angst ridden teens and welfare.
I’ve never asked anybody to feel sorry for me. DHS had always tried to get me out of my situation, but they had difficulty getting a hold of either Ben or Mary. The relatives I had were better off than my current situation, but I wasn’t permitted to see them. I was Ben’s rag doll. Mary only cared about me when she was high. Every morning she gave me two dollars for lunch. Crumpled into my hand, I sneezed when the white residue flew into my face. It’s the adversity that I faced in my childhood that I couldn’t seem to overcome. The adversity that’s shaped me into the person I’ve become today.
...
Ben’s on the couch again, a lit joint hanging from the edge of his lips. In his right hand is a warming Budweiser. One or two more and if I just happen to look at him wrong I’ll be in trouble. You can never forget the sound, the little clink of a belt coming unhooked and the whoosh it makes as it rips through the loops. Ben brandished the belt in his hand like a whip. A lion tamer after a malnourished and sickly lion. The knots in my throat and stomach, all the way up to the tears forming in my water well eyes, he didn’t care. I’ve still got scars on my back and chest from those belt whips. The crack of leather on my body, it sears across my skin, burning. A nice red welt about six inches long across the middle of my back.
Mary cries for Ben to stop. Her crotch is aching from those coloreds in the projects, a wad of cash stuffed into her bra. She sits on a dilapidated lazy-boy that doesn’t recline anymore, legs spread wide open. Ben doesn’t listen. As he’s whipping away at my ever reddening back, the joint falls out of his mouth and burns into the carpet. He yells out an obscenity, as he always does, but I’m too busy crying and trying to find a way to escape. This is the status quo. This is our dinner table.
Dysfunctional isn’t the right word, but it’s the first to come to mind.
...
It was a little over twenty years ago when Ben finally found out that Mary was spending her days and evenings getting paid by diseased black men for sex. The night he found out he came home from a local bar drunker than usual. He had caught wind of the breaking news at the bar and was enraged when he got home. I was awoken when the door slammed. Ben’s footsteps were angry and determined. Stomping across the rug in the living room and onto the peeling linoleum in the kitchen. I remember being huddled under my covers, knees held tightly to my chest, assuming the fetal position. Through my paper thin walls I could hear Ben yelling at Mary. Then Mary crying hysterically.
Ben’s voice continued to raise higher and higher. That was when my ears were pierced by a bang. Mary’s body collapsed to the floor. A perfectly circle hole left right between the eyes. The back wall of the kitchen had been spray painted a wonderful crimson. Monet would have been proud of Ben’s artwork. A deafening silence followed. My body remained under the blankets, tears escaping from my bolted shut eyelids. One thought continuously ran through my mind, but it wasn’t that Mary had been shot dead. Was I next? My young, bewildered nine year old thoughts were interrupted when my ears picked up on light sobbing. It was Ben. Never before in my life had I heard Ben cry. Even though Mary was gone, being able to hear Ben cry was almost... satisfying. It was the first and last time I would ever hear him in pain.
Bang. Silence.
Benjamin David and Meredith Lynn. Twenty-nine and twenty-eight years old respectively. Married at the tender age of twenty and nineteen because Ben got Mary pregnant. Together now, just over nine years later. Their blood collectively pooled on the kitchen floor, seeping under the linoleum and dripping into the apartment below. They were now together forever. Waiting at the gates of Hell, looking wide eyed into the River Styx. Their death would be more unpleasant than their life could have ever been.
Once the police arrived at the scene, I was free.
Free from being abused and beaten every day. However, I wasn’t free from the memories that were stained into the deepest corner of my psyche. As I grew up, I carried the images of Ben and Mary laying dead on the floor. I turned into a withdrawn teenager who liked to cut himself for fun. I became an alcoholic like my father for a time. I did make it further than he did. At one time I became quite wealthy. I was on television every week in front of millions of people. Millions of people who believed that the character I portrayed was just a gimmick.
Three years have passed since I was last seen on television. Three years have passed since anybody that truly knew me has seen me. Three years have passed since I lost everything and once again became a nobody.
My story is just the same as millions of children that came before me and the millions that will come after me. Why have I bothered telling you all of this? Because in the months that follow, there’s a little corner of Los Angeles that will come to recognize my face again. They will remember who I am and what I’ve done. My story is exactly the same, but at the same time it is unique and special. There’s a legion of children out there who have shared my same problems. I’m going to fight for myself, for them. For their memories and my own. There’s much to be written and much to be said. I feel as if I don’t have enough time to say what I mean.
My actions will speak louder than words.
Vengeance isn’t the right word, but it’s the first that comes to mind.
Where did this leave me? I ran as fast I could to and from school every day. I listened to the kids yelling as I ran by, “Your mother’s a whore!” I knew it was the truth, but I was nine years old and in denial. The thirteen year olds who chased me down and left me black and blue every day knew I was an easy source of wringing out their own frustrations. I was just a damp washcloth to them. Every day it was the same. Get the kid, steal what little money he had, beat him until he couldn’t walk straight and then let him go to school, or home. It’s hard growing up when all you know are abusive parents, abusive and angst ridden teens and welfare.
I’ve never asked anybody to feel sorry for me. DHS had always tried to get me out of my situation, but they had difficulty getting a hold of either Ben or Mary. The relatives I had were better off than my current situation, but I wasn’t permitted to see them. I was Ben’s rag doll. Mary only cared about me when she was high. Every morning she gave me two dollars for lunch. Crumpled into my hand, I sneezed when the white residue flew into my face. It’s the adversity that I faced in my childhood that I couldn’t seem to overcome. The adversity that’s shaped me into the person I’ve become today.
...
Ben’s on the couch again, a lit joint hanging from the edge of his lips. In his right hand is a warming Budweiser. One or two more and if I just happen to look at him wrong I’ll be in trouble. You can never forget the sound, the little clink of a belt coming unhooked and the whoosh it makes as it rips through the loops. Ben brandished the belt in his hand like a whip. A lion tamer after a malnourished and sickly lion. The knots in my throat and stomach, all the way up to the tears forming in my water well eyes, he didn’t care. I’ve still got scars on my back and chest from those belt whips. The crack of leather on my body, it sears across my skin, burning. A nice red welt about six inches long across the middle of my back.
Mary cries for Ben to stop. Her crotch is aching from those coloreds in the projects, a wad of cash stuffed into her bra. She sits on a dilapidated lazy-boy that doesn’t recline anymore, legs spread wide open. Ben doesn’t listen. As he’s whipping away at my ever reddening back, the joint falls out of his mouth and burns into the carpet. He yells out an obscenity, as he always does, but I’m too busy crying and trying to find a way to escape. This is the status quo. This is our dinner table.
Dysfunctional isn’t the right word, but it’s the first to come to mind.
...
It was a little over twenty years ago when Ben finally found out that Mary was spending her days and evenings getting paid by diseased black men for sex. The night he found out he came home from a local bar drunker than usual. He had caught wind of the breaking news at the bar and was enraged when he got home. I was awoken when the door slammed. Ben’s footsteps were angry and determined. Stomping across the rug in the living room and onto the peeling linoleum in the kitchen. I remember being huddled under my covers, knees held tightly to my chest, assuming the fetal position. Through my paper thin walls I could hear Ben yelling at Mary. Then Mary crying hysterically.
Ben’s voice continued to raise higher and higher. That was when my ears were pierced by a bang. Mary’s body collapsed to the floor. A perfectly circle hole left right between the eyes. The back wall of the kitchen had been spray painted a wonderful crimson. Monet would have been proud of Ben’s artwork. A deafening silence followed. My body remained under the blankets, tears escaping from my bolted shut eyelids. One thought continuously ran through my mind, but it wasn’t that Mary had been shot dead. Was I next? My young, bewildered nine year old thoughts were interrupted when my ears picked up on light sobbing. It was Ben. Never before in my life had I heard Ben cry. Even though Mary was gone, being able to hear Ben cry was almost... satisfying. It was the first and last time I would ever hear him in pain.
Bang. Silence.
Benjamin David and Meredith Lynn. Twenty-nine and twenty-eight years old respectively. Married at the tender age of twenty and nineteen because Ben got Mary pregnant. Together now, just over nine years later. Their blood collectively pooled on the kitchen floor, seeping under the linoleum and dripping into the apartment below. They were now together forever. Waiting at the gates of Hell, looking wide eyed into the River Styx. Their death would be more unpleasant than their life could have ever been.
Once the police arrived at the scene, I was free.
Free from being abused and beaten every day. However, I wasn’t free from the memories that were stained into the deepest corner of my psyche. As I grew up, I carried the images of Ben and Mary laying dead on the floor. I turned into a withdrawn teenager who liked to cut himself for fun. I became an alcoholic like my father for a time. I did make it further than he did. At one time I became quite wealthy. I was on television every week in front of millions of people. Millions of people who believed that the character I portrayed was just a gimmick.
Three years have passed since I was last seen on television. Three years have passed since anybody that truly knew me has seen me. Three years have passed since I lost everything and once again became a nobody.
My story is just the same as millions of children that came before me and the millions that will come after me. Why have I bothered telling you all of this? Because in the months that follow, there’s a little corner of Los Angeles that will come to recognize my face again. They will remember who I am and what I’ve done. My story is exactly the same, but at the same time it is unique and special. There’s a legion of children out there who have shared my same problems. I’m going to fight for myself, for them. For their memories and my own. There’s much to be written and much to be said. I feel as if I don’t have enough time to say what I mean.
My actions will speak louder than words.
Vengeance isn’t the right word, but it’s the first that comes to mind.